


Ctrl Z

by ManicMoose



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual John Watson, Chance Meetings, F/M, Infidelity, John is a Mess, M/M, Misunderstandings, POV John Watson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2020-10-06 05:20:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20501540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ManicMoose/pseuds/ManicMoose
Summary: Captain John H. Watson returns home to England on a rainy Tuesday afternoon in May. The administrator processing his discharge papers pauses in surprise when she reaches the endowment section on his papers, and he just barely manages to keep from rolling his eyes. With the exception of medical professionals, endowment experts, or the rare few who bother to learn anything more than the basics of their own gift, people always assume that nothing unpleasant ever befalls a winder.Not for longer than it takes to blink at least.In a world where everyone is born with a gift, some things are meant to happen no matter what you do… they might just take a more circuitous route getting there.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Whelp! Time for something _entirely_ different! This has been underway for going on a year now, and now that I've finally put my last series to bed for good, I think it's high time to start posting; if only to force myself to buckle down and get it all out. That being said, while It's definitely a WIP, I have a very detailed outline (and the final few chapters already written, because of course I do). So it's really about giving myself the right motivation to get the middle bits filled out and organized. I'm hoping/thinking it will hit around 10 chapters.
> 
> My posting schedule is pretty much guaranteed to be a bit erratic as I'm juggling a lot of major work and home-life responsibilities, but seeing as I haven't lost interest or impetus (however unfortunately slow) in over a year, I've got the drive to finish it. Please bear with me. 
> 
> And off we go!

Captain John H. Watson returns home to England on a rainy Tuesday afternoon in May. The administrator processing his discharge papers pauses in surprise when she reaches the endowment section on his papers, and he just barely manages to keep from rolling his eyes. With the exception of medical professionals, endowment experts, or the rare few who bother to learn anything more than the basics of their own gift, people always assume that nothing unpleasant ever befalls a winder.

Not for longer than it takes to blink at least.

He supposes it can’t be helped. Everyone’s got a gift, but most are more mundane than not, so it’s no surprise that the particularly outstanding ones garner the most attention. And while he takes no pride in the fact (why would he? he’s no more responsible for it than he is for having blue eyes), winders are rare. Few people have even met one, and thanks to that, it’s easy for them to believe it’s as effortless. and uncomplicated as films and telly always make it out to be— a magical cure-all to anything.

Not the violitle, energy-expending gamble that it actually is.

It's simple enough to rewind a spilled drink or a bad blind date, to be sure, but being shot?

That’s an entirely different kettle of fish.

He’d much rather be recognized for the things he’s accomplished _without _the help of his gift, but that’s easier said than done when you’re a winder. People with simpler gifts often bemoan their relative uselessness, but they’ve never tried to live in the shadow of an exceptional one. Look at bloody Leonardo for chrissakes— _his _gift had been the ability to draw a perfect circle every go, but that’s hardly what anyone remembers him for.

When everyone assumes you’ve had a do-over for every less than perfect moment of your life, on the other hand, nothing you achieve is all that impressive. And your failures?

Well.

Harry and Clara arrive from Leeds to pick him up at exactly half four, just as promised— every bit Clara’s gift in action, and no thanks to his sister, judging by the tell-tale air of cigarettes and lager that lingers on her jacket. It’s the work of an hour settling the few boxes of belongings he’d left with them for safekeeping into the spartan little bedsit that SPACES has helped get him into. Hardly worth the trip down south in his opinion, but afterward they insist on taking him for dinner as well; to “celebrate” his homecoming.

Not that there’s anything much to celebrate.

He’s a cripple, his career is over, and he can’t even afford to stay in the city he loves.

Halfway through dinner Harry’s water inevitably becomes Pinot Grigio, and she grows teary-eyed then drowsy in turn, leaving him and Clara to wrangle her back into the passenger seat of the Astra for the long drive home.

“I'm so sorry John,” Clara sighs into his shoulder as she gathers him close for a hug. “She promised she wouldn't, but you know how it is.”

“Don’t be,” he pats her back reassuringly. “It’s fine. I’m well used to it.”

And he is. He’s been managing Harry ever since her questionable gift first made itself known, just after her fourteenth birthday. Him barely a year younger, spending his weekends helping her wobble home from whatever party she’d landed herself at that time round. Back when he still tried using his own gift to stop her.

Wino and Winder Watson, their secondary schoolmates used to delight in calling them.

At least it’s easier now than it was then.

But for Clara…

Not for the first time, he wonders just what it is about Harry that inspires such patience in his sister-in-law. He isn’t sure what she did to win the unwavering devotion of someone like Clara, but she’s damned lucky she did.

Once they’re gone, he’s left with only the blank walls of his bedsit for company. He sleeps fitfully; tossing and turning for hours, only to awake drenched in a cold sweat almost as soon as he finally falls asleep. Lingering inside only makes him restless, as if he might crawl out of his own skin.

And so, to keep his mind from straying too often to the gun secreted away in his drawer, he walks.

It’s hard readjusting to the damp of England after so long in the Middle East, and the weather makes the freshly healed wound in his shoulder ache, but he goes out anyways, limping aimlessly around the familiar streets of central London with his cane.

Anything for a reprieve from the endless, all-consuming boredom slowly driving him mad.

So it’s a welcome enough diversion when an old schoolmate calls his name in the park, in spite of the humiliation of being seen as he is now; a crippled shadow of his former self.

Mike Stamford, on the other hand, is just as cheerful and gregarious as he always was in uni (if a bit rounder). They buy coffee from the small stand at the end of the path, then settle in on a park bench to chat. Mike is still at Bart’s, having made the transition over the years from student to teacher.

“Bright young things, like we used to be,” he jokes about his pupils. “God, I hate them!” They both laugh and shake their heads, as if wondering where the years disappeared to. “What about you?” Mike asks then. “Just staying in town ’til you get yourself sorted?”

“Can't afford London on an Army pension,” John grimaces and takes another gulp of his coffee.

“Ah, and you couldn’t bear to be anywhere else. That’s not the John Watson I know.”

John bristles.

“Yeah, well, I’m not the John Watson— ” he catches himself, tamping down quickly on the swell of misdirected anger, and clenches his fist in an effort to bring the accompanying tremor in his right hand under control. He sips his coffee in embarrassment, already strategizing how best to politely excuse himself as quickly as possible.

Mike though, true to character, seems entirely unfazed.

“You can still practice can't you?” He lowers his cup and muses after a few short minutes of silence. “I know you can't perform surgery anymore, but what about the basics; assessment, simple stitches, and all that?”

“Not exactly qualified to practice as a GP anymore now am I? Though— you wouldn’t _believe _how many cases of chlamydia I’ve seen,” he snorts. “But otherwise, battlefield first-aid doesn’t exactly transfer well to runny noses and the like.”

“Funny you should say that,” Mike grins as though he’s just thought of something especially brilliant. “Was talking to a friend of mine, Sarah, just this morning. She’s looking for someone to fill a vacancy in the Bart’s A&E. ‘What am I going to do with all these doctors who're used to nothing but runny noses and the odd case of the clap? It’s like a bloody battlefield most nights,’ she said.”

John feels the beginnings of an answering grin tug at the corners of his mouth.

“You don't say.”

***

Mike introduces him to Sarah the very next morning. She takes one look at his cane and lifts an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment on it.

“Mike says you're a winder." She says instead, leaning on the outer edge of her desk. "That's a rare one. I imagine that's useful for catching those little cock-ups that really bollocks everything up every now and again.”

“It is,” He raises his eyebrows in surprise. Everyone always assumes his gift to be in near-constant use— that he’s perpetually undoing every minor mishap. But it’s far more useful just as she’s described; undoing those little, unassuming errors that unexpectedly morph into much larger ones.

“It is,” he acknowledges.

“More useful than mine at least,” she grins and shrugs.

“Oh?”

She picks up the mug from the corner of her desk and sips from it. “Never goes cold.”

He laughs— properly laughs— for the first time since Afghanistan.

And that’s that.

He works his first shift at Bart’s the following Monday, and it's absolutely _mad _from start to finish. His hand doesn't shake once, and when a multi-vehicle collision arrives midway through his tea he forgets his cane in the break room. His limp reappears by the tail end of the night, but the short respite is a luxury enough.

He loves it.

***

In June, he meets a pretty blonde nurse named Mary on the dayshift, and when he asks her if she’d like to go to the pub after work, she accepts with a grin. She laughs at all his jokes, touches his arm playfully, and before he knows it he’s sleeping at her flat more nights than not. When he proposes two months later, the other staff at work tease him playfully about being quick off the mark, but he shrugs it off.

Neither of them are getting any younger, and life with Mary is as close as he’s felt to normal since he was a boy. Before Dad’s drinking grew out of control. Before Mum got sick and died, and Harry starting following in their father's footsteps.

If sometimes he feels inexplicably restless, weighed down by the boring ordinariness of it all, it’s normal— nothing more than a touch of cold feet.

He _wants _a normal life. Marriage, children, a cheery flat with a garden for them to play in— maybe a dog.

They marry in December; a Christmas wedding. It’s simple and tasteful, just a small civil ceremony and dinner with a handful of their colleagues from the hospital. They have little to no family to speak of between the two of them; Mary’s parents long dead, and her Aunt relocated to America, while John hasn’t spoken to his father in years. Harry’s invited of course, but she doesn’t make an appearance. Instead Clara arrives alone, looking pale and washed out, but determinedly happy them despite the lingering sadness behind her eyes.

Despite their original plans not to go abroad, they impulsively book a last-minute honeymoon to Grenada, and the day before their flight he gets the 3 am phone call from Harry he’s been expecting for some time. He rubs a hand over his face as she tearfully informs his she’s just walked out on her long-suffering wife, and considers whether it’s worth the energy to rewind the booking.

Even with his gift, there’s nothing he can do for Harry’s problems— he’s learned that much by now — but at least he might save a few hundred quid in cancellation fees.

Mary’s unruffled air of calm when he tells her reminds him of just why he married her. Rather than pitching a fit, she books him a train ticket to Leeds while he packs to go spend a week helping his sister sort out her life, instead of lying on a sandy beach in the Caribbean.

She calls him every day, and never once mentions their aborted honeymoon.

***

“Oh! I _finally _met the illustrious Sherlock Holmes today,” Mary cheerily announces down the line on his fifth night away. “A police officer brought him in — well, dragged him more like — with a knife wound needing stitches.” There’s a pause as she stops to sample whatever it is she’s cooking. “I can see why Moll’s so infatuated: tall, dark, handsome. Not to mention deliciously posh.”

He’s yet to meet the infamous ‘Consulting Detective’ who haunts the labs and mortuary of Bart's like a particularly inquisitive ghost; though, judging by the stories he’s heard, that's quite fortunate. He’s been hard pressed to understand what has sweet, considerate Molly so beguiled. A pretty face goes a long way in explaining things.

“Is that so?” John moves the phone to his shoulder as he surveys the sparsely populated fridge of Harry’s new flat for dinner possibilities of his own. “Should I be worried Mrs. Watson?”

“Oh no,” she reassures him, and he can hear the cheeky grin in her voice. “I’ve always gone in for a bit of rough, personally.”

“Well, lucky for me then,” he grins back and gives up on the contents of the fridge, to examine the takeaway menus stuck to the front of it instead.

“He’s also an _enormous _prat,” she continues. “The copper who brought him was a lovely bloke though; and he wasn’t hard on the eyes either. Now _he’d_ be a nice catch for Molls. Nearly asked for his card. Lord knows, with that gift of hers, that girl could use all the help she can get.”

“Mary!” He admonishes mildly, instantly defensive in the way that everyone with an uncommon gift is of one another.

“John,” Mary sighs heavily, “the first time you met her, you sat next to her for fifteen minutes without noticing she was there.”

He winces. He had, in fact, done just that.

“Yeah, okay. Maybe next time ask for his card.”

***

It takes him two weeks to sort Harry out; squiring her to appointments, and sitting up with her through wild crying jags. By the time she's squared away in a treatment facility and he returns home to London, he hardly needs a trip abroad anymore— the chaos of the Bart’s A&E sounds like a vacation in and of itself. Naturally he and Mary are on opposite shifts his first week back, but Mike, saint that he is, offers to meet him for a pint so that he can unload a bit about his trainwreck of a sister.

Of course, while Mike might be a saint, organization certainly isn’t his knack. And so, before they can head off, they find themselves up on the third floor, retrieving Mike’s mislaid satchel from the lab that he’d forgotten it in after teaching his last class.

It’s been an age since he’s had any reason to venture up into the teaching labs, and he loiters by the doorway when Mike shepards him inside, marveling over the gleaming worktops and high-end equipment. There’s a posh young man stood at one of the worktops to the side of the room — a graduate student perhaps — who glances up briefly from his pipetting as they enter before returning his attention to his work.

“Bit different from our day,” John comments, his eyes lingering on the younger man despite himself. Now there’s another difference from their day— they certainly never had anyone about their labs who looked like _that_.

“Oh, you’ve no idea,” Mike chuckles as he hurries to collect his belongings.

The young man fiddles with something on the worktop, and looks up again at Mike as he passes.

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.”

Mike pauses, patting his pockets before cursing softly.

“Sorry, must’ve forgot it in my office.”

John stifles a laugh. Of course he had. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his own mobile; the new one that Harry had insisted that he accept. He limps the short distance across the across the room with his cane to offer it up.

“Here, use mine.”

The young man looks startled, but reaches out to accept it regardless.

“Oh. Thank you.”

Mike beams.

“Sherlock, this is my mate, John Watson. He's— “

Sherlock cuts him off abruptly, eyes remaining fixed on John.

“A former army doctor, works in the A&E, just back from a short trip…" he cocks his head consideringly. "North or south?”

“North,” John grins and extends his hand in greeting. “I've heard about you. Brilliant that. Quite, quite brilliant.”

“Really?” Sherlock falters, his elfin features taking on an adorably perplexed cast as he enfolds John’s fingers in his own for a firm shake.

“Yes, absolutely.”

“That's not what people usually say.”

“What do they usually say?” John prompts and Sherlock’s lips quirk.

“Piss off.”

John lets loose an uproarious laugh, and a smile creeps across Sherlock’s face before he slowly joins in with a chuckle of his own. It starts off a wavering, as if rusty from disuse, then settles into a steady, confident rumble. As their laughter dies down, John realizes with a jolt that their hands are still loosely grasped between them.

_Old habits,_ he reminds himself, suppressing the flutter in his chest as discreetly eases his hand free.

He's _married _now. None of that anymore.

Apropos of nothing, Sherlock excuses himself with the announcement that he needs to retrieve his riding crop from the mortuary, of all places. As they set off their separate ways, John can’t quite resist taking a quick glance back over his shoulder.

Sherlock is looking right back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a week before he sees Sherlock Holmes again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I offer no excuses other than the simple fact life is well, crazy and overwhelming. But here we are again! i hope everyone is as safe and well as can be expected in these interesting times.

It's a week before he sees Sherlock Holmes again. He's just finished his shift, and the moment he exits the staff changing room to head for the tube, he's accosted by a tall, vaguely familiar shadow.

“Dr. Watson!” Sherlock beams as he looms over him, hands stuffed in the pockets that dramatic greatcoat. “Excellent, I was hoping to find you here! I was looking for Dr. Stamford, but he wasn't in his office.”

“Yeah, no, Mike's on vacation. Won't be back until next week. Did you need something?” John asks, ignoring the flutter of butterflies in his belly. He fidgets in place, shifting his weight onto his good leg as he fiddles with the handle of his cane.

“Yes, I was wondering if you might be able to—”

“Thank Christ,” a voice interrupts from behind John, and Sherlock's gaze cuts to over his shoulder. “I texted you and stopped by the flat, but Mrs. Hudson said you were here.”

John turns to find a silver-haired man in a black overcoat behind him, running a hand through his trim hair in a hurried manner.

“There's been another one,” Sherlock announces mysteriously, excitement clear as crystal in his voice. “A fourth! Where?”

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes intently.

“What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t have come to get me if there wasn’t something different."

“You know how they never leave notes? This one did.” The man sighs heavily, despite having made the effort to seek Sherlock out. “Will you come?”

“Who’s on forensics?” Sherlock demands as John stands aside, taking in the rapid exchange like a tennis match. The man looks sheepish as he admits that it’s a bloke by the name of Anderson.

The reason for his contrition is immediately evident when Sherlock grimaces dramatically with a shake of his head. The two argue briefly over the consulting detective’s need for an assistant before the man pleads earnestly again for Sherlock to come.

Sherlock concedes.

“Not in a police car. I’ll be right behind.”

And just like that, they’re off. As Sherlock bolts, John can't help but deflate slightly, fighting off a frisson of disappointment that he knows he shouldn’t feel. He gives his head a firm shake, then turns to head for the tube, nearly colliding with the solid wall of Sherlock’s chest.

“You were an army doctor," Sherlock announces, staring down at him speculatively. John doesn't know what's prompted the non-sequitur but he nods in confirmation regardless.

"Yes."

"Seen a lot of injuries then; violent deaths."

"Mmm, yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I bet," Sherlock surmises casually, cocking his head to the side.

"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime." John squares his jaw, carefully adopting the stoic, regretful expression that he knows everyone expects from a veteran. "Far too much."

A knowing smile twitches the corner of the detective's mouth.

"Want to see some more?"

He doesn't hesitate.

“_God_, yes.”

***

As they make their way to Brixton, John watches Sherlock out of the corner of his mind in the back of the cab. The younger man sits stiffly upright, collar turned up against those flawless cheekbones as he stares out the window at the lights of the city that streak past. A long stretch of silence passes before the curiosity gets to be too much, and John can’t resist any longer.

"How does it work, exactly? Your gift,” he asks. “Everyone's told me you just look at people and know things; you some type of seer then?”

He tells himself it’s not rude to ask— it’s perfectly normal to ask people about their gifts, so long as they’re not the more ignominious sort. It doesn't seem that Sherlock's accustomed to that sort of small talk though, if the brief flash of surprise that John catches in his reflection is anything to go by.

"Mm," Sherlock's mouth quirks in amusement as he continues staring out the window. "That's the lazy way of looking at it I suppose. I see bits and pieces— impressions. From objects mostly, or direct physical contact with individuals, though I generally try to avoid that. The stronger the emotion involved the crisper the impression. The rest I piece together from visual clues, through a method that I refer to as deduction. It's a science."

"Deduction?"

"Yes," he twists in his seat to face John. He tugs off one buttery-soft leather glove and extends his naked palm. "Give me your phone."

Intrigued, John digs into his pocket and fishes it out, handing it over willingly.

Sherlock turns the small, sleek brick over in his hand, gazing down upon it with a thoughtful expression. “You’re brother’s a drinker, recently separated from his wife. You’re not close, but your trip earlier this month was to help settle him into a rehabilitation facility, and he wants to begin to mend your relationship."

With that he passes it back, nonchalantly tugging his glove on while John blinks in surprise.

"You got all that, from _this,_" he marvels, turning the mobile over in his palms in wonderment.

"I did," Sherlock agrees with a small, pleased smile.

"Which bits?"

"Sorry?"

"Which bits," John repeats. "You said you see bits and piece the rest together," he elaborates, "which parts did you _see_ and which did you guess?"

"I don't _guess_," Sherlock spits the word from his mouth with great offense. He snatches the phone back from John's hands hastily.

"Scratches," he gestures pointedly to its dinged face. "Not one; many, over time. It’s been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn’t treat his one luxury item like this, so it’s had a previous owner. Next bit’s easy. You know it already."

"The engraving," John hazards, and Sherlock flips the phone over to run his thumb over the etched letters.

"Mhm; 'Harry Watson'. Given the unlikelihood that you just so happened to buy a secondhand phone once owned by a fellow Watson, clearly a family member’s given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man’s gadget. Now, _Clara_. Who’s Clara? Three kisses says it’s a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. When you put it in my hand, I was immediately assaulted by the overwhelming impression of a noisy row."

John raises his brows in surprise.

"You didn't even flinch."

"I'm quite accustomed to it," Sherlock offers with a tight smile. "Now, pair that with the intense feelings of frustration and shame radiating off of it, and the fact he's just given it away? Marriage in trouble. If she’d left him, he would have kept it. People do – sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left _her_."

"He gave the phone to you; that says he wants you to stay in touch. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you _don’t_ like his drinking."

“How can you possibly know about the drinking?”

"Simple. We have a row, feelings of misery, a sense of unsteadiness and the impression of a pub; so strong that I could practically taste the lager and smoke. Places only leave an imprint like that if an object's spent a significant amount of time there. And finally these," he turns the mobile upside down to expose the charging port. "Little matching scuff marks around the edge of the power connection, from shaky hands trying to plug it in to charge. You never see those on a sober man's phone; never see a drunk's without them." He passes the mobile back again smugly. "There you go; you see — I never guess."

John slips it back into his jacket without taking his eyes from Sherlock. He struggles to find his tongue; hard-pressed to recall a time he was more impressed.

"That ... was amazing."

“Like I said before,” Sherlock smiles shyly, “that’s not what people normally say.”

The cab comes to a halt, their destination easy to spot from across the street, with the police tape and flashing lights of panda cars.

“Did I get anything wrong?” Sherlock asks, shoving his hands into his pockets as they cross the road.

“Harry and me don’t get on; haven't in… a long time. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they’re getting a divorce; and Harry _is _a drinker… has been since the first time she turned her water to wine at the dinner table at fourteen. It was inevitable I guess.”

"A vintner?" Sherlock interjects. "Interesting. Not as rare as a winder, but an uncommon gift nonetheless."

"Yeah," John agrees, scratching self-consciously at the back of his neck. "But Dad was too, and his Da before him. Runs in the Watson blood, I guess."

Sherlock stops dead in his tracks.

"Wait. _She— _you said she."

"That I did," John continues onward, working a grin back over his shoulder. "Harry’s short for Harriet."

"Harry’s your _sister_." Sherlock frowns thunderously, gritting his teeth as his long legs hurriedly swallow up John's headstart. "Sister! There's always _something."_

***

The next half-hour at Lauriston Gardens is like something from a film; Sherlock plucking a series of details about the victim seemingly from thin air. And then, just like that, he's gone; ranting wildly about a pink case that he'd seen in his visions and leaving John awkwardly loitering about an active crime scene. Thankfully the disposable blue coveralls allow him to blend into the bustle of the scene for the most part, but he discreetly absents himself before anyone thinks to question his presence.

Normally he'd be simmering with anger at the thoughtlessness— he _should _be_— _but despite himself, he still mostly just feels dazzled.

A hike up Brixton High Street and a short tube ride later he's back at his flat in Clapham. watching a rather unappetizing looking plate of leftovers rotate in the microwave, when his phone buzzes in his pocket. It buzzes again insistently as he’s pulling it out.

> 221B Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH
> 
> If inconvenient, come anyway. SH

He nearly forgets the plate in the microwave in his haste to rush off.

***

The third text comes in just as he's surfacing from the Baker Street tube station, and he feels himself settle into military posture as he reads it.

> Could be dangerous. SH

When he arrives at the address in question, however, he's thrown off guard by the bubbly older woman who greets him at the street door and directs him upstairs. He doesn’t quite know what he was expecting, but she most definitely wasn’t it. Far and away from some looming thug, she puts him more than anything else in mind of his Great Aunt Kitty.

Any lingering remnant of vigilance fizzles out when John reaches the top of the stairs and finds Sherlock stretched out on the sofa in repose, eyes closed, and very much so not in danger. He allows himself to relax and admire the space with its tall, elegant windows and charming Victorian mantle. He lets loose a low whistle of appreciation. "Nice location this; lovely little place. Must be expensive."

Sherlock's eyes fly open and snap to John, body tensing in alert, as though surprised by someone else's presence in the flat.

“Oh," he settles back against the cushions at the sight of John, and waves a hand dismissively. "Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she’s giving me a special deal. Owed me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out”

“Sorry—" John pauses in his perusal of the eccentric collection of clutter blanketing the table in the center of the room. "You stopped her husband being executed?”

“Oh no,” Sherlock grins fiendishly, “I _ensured_ it.”

"Right," John laughs at the shameless display of delight. "Of course you did." The stern, rule-abiding side of himself tells him he should be disturbed by the admission— alarmed even— but somehow he's _charmed_. Things that should make absolutely no rational sense seem perfectly fitting in the context of Sherlock Holmes, and he has no idea why.

As he finds himself texting an unknown number without hesitance it occurs to him what it is about the man, exactly, that puts him so at ease. Holmes is nothing if not a commanding officer; driven, decisive and unafraid to lead the charge.

And John is a soldier left bereft of a battle.

***

Within the hour they find themselves waiting on a serial killer at a charming little italian restaurant of all places. The stout proprietor, Angelo, greets Sherlock like a prodigal son, regaling John with the detective’s incredible endeavour of having exonerated him of one crime, by helpfully cementing his incarceration for an entirely different— admittedly less horrific— offence. He claps Sherlock jubilantly on the shoulder and insists they order whatever it is they fancy; on the house.

"I'll get a candle!" He announces suddenly, beaming. "It's more romantic."

John opens his mouth to protest just as Angelo turns; directly into the slight young waitress standing behind him, candle in hand and the slightly sheepish expression of someone thoughtlessly following the overpowering urge of their gift.

The otherwise minor collision is made spectacular by the unfortunate inclusion of Angelo's full water pitcher upending it's contents all over the poor girl.

It's a quick thing to fix; John doesn't even give it a second thought as he squeezes his eyes shut. He puts protests against romanticism aside to catch Angelo's elbow just before the two collide. He's only just gotten his bearings again when Sherlock drags him out of the restaurant and onto the street, headlong into a madcap foot-chase across London.

***

“Okay, that was ridiculous,” John gasps for air when they finally back to the safety of Baker Street. “That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

“And you invaded Afghanistan,” Sherlock remarks, and John can’t hold back the answering flood of laughter that bubbles up.

“That,” he giggles uncontrollably, “wasn’t just me.” He turns to look at Sherlock with a curious smile as something occurs to him. “Why aren’t we back at the restaurant?”

“Oh,” Sherlock waves his hand, “they can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway.”

“So what were we doing there?” John questions, trying to ignore the way his heart picks up speed in his chest.

“Oh, just passing the time.” Sherlock rolls his head against the wallpaper to look over at him and his eyes flick downward to John's mouth.

And then he leans in and presses their lips together.

John freezes for heartbeat, caught up in the sheer pleasure of it, then reaches between them and gently pushes Sherlock away.

“I—” he licks his lips and tastes Sherlock on them, and something clenches in his gut. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t. I’m married.”

“Oh— I—” Sherlock stutters, looking unbearably young and flustered. “Y-you don’t wear a ring.”

“It's a bother at work. Would have thought you'd have just deduced it,” John tries, but the joking tone falls flat between them.

“There’s always something,” Sherlock reminds him ruefully, and there's a flash of something in his eyes before they shutter. “My apologies,” he offers crisply as he steps back. The only sign of emotion is the slight tremble of his hand as he buttons his suit jacket. “Please disregard my misstep.” And with that, he turns on his heel and starts up the stairs, ignoring John when he calls after him.

“Wait, Sherlock!”

John watches Sherlock stiffly march up the steps, feels his own heart racing beneath his sternum.

And he squeezes his eyes shut.

**Author's Note:**

> (Also in case anyone notices- I am aware that Bart's has no A&E, but I figured if I could give people an array of odd powers, I could definitely get away with giving them one.)


End file.
